


Can't Stand To Stand

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-06
Updated: 2010-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:25:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's supposed to remind Johnny that they have an appearance together on the carpet at one of the Oscar parties, and to ask him not to say anything that will embarrass him or figure skating in a way that doesn't sound like he's begging, so Weir doesn't think he has the upper hand, but doesn't sound like he's ordering, so Weir doesn't get his back up and say things on purpose. He can't remember his opening line with Johnny looking at him impatiently, so he looks down, away from Johnny's neat bangs and bland grey-green eyes, and - holy shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Stand To Stand

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://wintergameskink.livejournal.com/420.html?thread=982692#t982692) on the [](http://wintergameskink.livejournal.com/profile)[**wintergameskink**](http://wintergameskink.livejournal.com/) meme ('Johnny opens the door to someone wearing only [this](http://i48.tinypic.com/2u92wbo.jpg)').

Evan taps on Johnny Weir's hotel room door. It sounds weak and hesitant, and there's no answering sound from inside, so he curls his fingers into a fist and raps harder with his knuckles.

"Coming!" someone muffled - Weir, it sounds like Weir - calls from inside. The door jerks open. "Hello, what can I do - Evan." The expectant little half-smile wipes itself off Johnny's mouth, like he's just noticed the cameras aren't rolling. "What are you doing here?"

"Weir," Evan says flatly. Then he's supposed to remind Johnny that they have an appearance together on the carpet at one of the Oscar parties, and to ask him not to say anything that will embarrass him or figure skating in a way that doesn't sound like he's begging, so Weir doesn't think he has the upper hand, but doesn't sound like he's ordering, so Weir doesn't get his back up and say things on purpose. He can't remember his opening line with Johnny looking at him impatiently, so he looks down, away from Johnny's neat bangs and bland grey-green eyes, and - holy shit.

Johnny's wearing a foolish little bowtie, which would be enough to freeze him with horror. When his eyes track down the white-edged blazer to Johnny's hips - Evan finds it confusing that anyone would wear a suit that wasn't black - there's nothing else. No pants, just the smooth tops of his thighs. Then sinewy knees and hard, skinny calves, interrupted by lavender ankle socks and brogues, and again, Evan doesn't understand why anyone would wear formal shoes that aren't black. Evan _likes_ formalwear. Black is not only accepted, it's mandatory.

It's possible that his brainvoice is focusing very hard on Johnny Weir's grey formalwear to distract himself from the fact that his eyes are focusing very hard on Johnny Weir's slim thighs, pressed together and peeping out from under his shirt hem in a way that's almost demure, in a teasing way, like a girl wearing her boyfriend's shirt around the house. They're pale and almost hairless just at the top, where they meet the shirt; they could be a girl's, he tells himself. That's why they're fascinating.

"My eyes are up here," Johnny says. He sounds amused, in that mocking-edged way he has that Evan hates. It always makes his tongue feel like it's made of thumbs, or frozen, just not able to move well. Like it's stiffened up after taking a bunch of bruising falls. "Maybe I should get something printed up. You know how girls have those shirts with the arrows pointing up across their breasts? Maybe I should get that on a thong. Only that might be sending the wrong message, it's not like I don't want to be checked out in general, you know? But there are some people you just don't want on your jock." He crosses one thigh a little in front of the other, protectively.

"I'm not looking at your jock," Evan grits out. He forces his eyes up, and yeah, Johnny is smirking at him, the corners of his mouth lifted and his eyes bright and full of DANGER, DANGER. "I'm supposed to, uh, we're going to be at the same Oscar party tonight, and I wanted to check in with you first-"

"That's very thoughtful for you," Johnny breaks in. "Unprecedentedly so." His mouth quirks further. "I wonder what brought that on. Were you trying to catch me in my panties? You must know that it takes me at least three hours to get ready."

"I didn't - oh my god, are you wearing _panties_?" Evan asks, thrown into fresh depths of fascinated horror. His voice breaks a little on the question. He wouldn't put anything past a guy who could go on the ice in something better suited to an S &M party than a rink, but there are just limits. Johnny Weir in panties is his limit. Weir's a skater, so it's not that Weir doesn't have the ass for panties, even the really girly lacy kind that are cobweb and spun sugar and not much else, but-

"Dirty talk, Evan? If you ask really nicely maybe I'll show you," Johnny says sweetly, his eyelashes flickering up and down like a silent movie star's. Evan tries to say something and chokes on his own tongue instead, and Johnny stops with the eyelashes and cracks the fuck up. "You are _so_ fun to fuck with," he says. "That was - you should see your face, you make the most priceless horrified faces. Come inside already, this whole lurking outside my hotel room door thing is totally shady."

"I wasn't lurking!" Evan begins to protest, but Johnny ushers him inside with a sweep of his hand.

Johnny Weir's hotel room feels like a dangerous place to be, in theory, like a sucking quicksand rabbithole of danger he could disappear into and never come out. It's just another hotel room once he's inside. There's a suitcase wide open on the luggage stand, with shoes and shirts and suspicious furry things heaped inside it, but apart from that, it looks barely lived in. Even the bed is neatly made, like the maid service just finished up. There aren't any male hookers or lines of coke or scary-looking sex toys, and it's not like Evan's _disappointed_ , but -

"Stop looking at my things," Johnny says. "I'll have to go over everything with Pledge and a squeegee to get rid of the lingering oiliness after you go."

"What?"

"Never mind." Johnny dismisses him with one of the hand gestures Evan hates so much, but he doesn't care so much this time because he's kind of staring at Johnny's skinny thighs again. The toned muscle in one of them twitches, like it knows it's being stared at.

"You do have actual pants for the carpet and the parties, right, though?" he asks distractedly. "Because you've brought enough embarrassment to our sport over the years -"

"Fuck you," Johnny says, and he says it with enough venom that Evan blinks and jerks his eyes up, and catches Johnny glaring at him with all the spark right in his eyes and none of the glossy mockery in the way.

Evan hasn't gotten through to Johnny like this with an insult for years, and he didn't even do it on purpose this time. Johnny says prickly needling things at press conferences and to the papers and behind his back, all the time; the only time Evan's ever able to cut Weir back is on the ice, and Johnny stopped even showing how much he cared about that a year or two back. He's wondering what to say next when Johnny shrugs, the distance and irony falling into place again like something shutting down behind his eyes.

"The Gaga _is_ my style icon," he says, wandering over to the mirror and straightening his bowtie. "I could be taking a pointer from her glorious example. Maybe I will. I'm retiring in a few weeks, it's not like I have to worry about the manly reputation of figure skating anymore, right?" His smile is thin and sharp enough that Evan's certain he's going to now, because Johnny's contrary like that. Maybe if he were less balky he wouldn't have pissed the ISU off so much in the first place, if he'd just been willing to play the game. It's not like it takes much work.

"Wear your pants," he begs Johnny's back. "Please."

"Normally boys beg me to take my pants _off,_ " Johnny tells the mirror.

"But your pants are already off."

"And that's the Evan Lysacek we know and love," Johnny says, picking up his hairbrush and holding it like a microphone. His voice has shifted from intimate and confiding to something eerily like an NBC commentator's. Evan refuses to think about which one's, especially since Weir is still standing there in purple socks and maybe panties. "Your intellectual champion, ladies and gentleman. Give him a hand."

"That's what I'm trying to talk to you about," Evan says, frustrated. "If you'll just stop clowning around-"

"Clowning around?" Johnny asks. In the mirror, his eyebrows rise, and he starts off on some breathless, annoyed rant that Evan can already tell will be both pointless and make him feel stupider.

He looks away and finds himself staring at Johnny Weir's legs again instead. The backs are nicer looking than the front; the backs of his knees are pale and look like the skin would be soft there, despite all the corded muscle. He can't see what Weir's wearing under the shirt and blazer from this angle, either, since the shirt swoops lower than the blazer in the back, too. Evan squints at the heavy shadow there at just where Johnny's thighs turn into his ass and vanish under the cotton, trying to discern a pantyline.

It takes him a few moments to realise that Johnny has stopped talking. "Are you - Are you staring at my ass?"

"Your shirt's in the way," Evan says. Wait. "I mean. If I was looking at your ass, which I was not, I wouldn't be able to see it anyway. Because your shirt would be in the way."

"Which you was not," Johnny repeats. It sounds like what Evan said, but somehow stupider, like things always do when Johnny mimics him. "You sound like you've given it a lot of thought."

"I was just trying to figure out if you were wearing panties," Evan blurts out, and fuck Johnny Weir and the way he always makes something go wrong between Evan's brain and his mouth. Evan makes things go wrong between Weir's skates and the ice, that's got to make up for it. "I mean."

Johnny turns around, and the shirt shifts with the movement, but not enough for Evan to see anything. Not that he's still looking. "You took me literally," Johnny says, delighted, and his mouth is curling up in a weird way that's not totally mocking for once, but is still dangerous as hell. "Of course you did. You're _Evan_."

"Um."

Johnny takes a step towards him, then another. Then another. The way he's smiling is kind of ironic, like he knows it's a move and he knows it's a line and he's totally expecting Evan to yelp and run for the door, but he's going to make the move anyway, because that's what everyone expects of him. "Do you want to see?"

Evan's tongue feels all clumsy again, and Johnny is still at least sixty percent fucking with him. He doesn't run for the door _or_ yelp, although he definitely wants to do the latter. Instead he swallows really hard. He's half a head taller than Johny, and broader, Johnny Weir shouldn't be able to loom over him. Bare-legged guys in purple ankle socks should not be able to loom over anyone, let alone gold-medal winning Olympic champions who are going to be on Dancing With The Stars. "Well, I'm kind of curious now," he manages, and it sounds like a smart thing, like he can joke around the same way Weir does without getting laughed at or taken seriously.

Johnny narrows his eyes at him, and then he gives this little what-the-fuck shrug and flicks open the button on his blazer. Then he starts undoing the little pearly buttons on his shirt. He holds the two halves together until he's done with the last button, and then he lets them fall apart. "Cotton," he says, rolling one shoulder and popping his hip. "Boring old-fashioned y-fronts. Nothing fancy."

His stomach is very flat and brown, concave under his ribs. There's a very fine trail of hair creeping from the elastic waistband of the boring cotton old-fashioned y-fronts to his neat belly button. Evan wants to trace it with his thumb; his reflexes must be off, because he's doing it before he's even thought about it, before he can stop himself. It's soft and crinkly-feeling. Johnny's stomach muscles clench, hard, like they're bracing themselves for a blow, or like he's trying to pull away, or maybe in shock. Evan's thumb reaches the end of the visible trail and hooks itself in the waistband of Johnny's briefs.

Johnny blinks up at him. "You're serious," he says, and Evan doesn't exactly know what he's talking about. There's definitely mascara on his long curling eyelashes, whatever he tells the press. Evan's close enough to see the faint clumps of it.

"I'm usually serious," Evan says. He doesn't pull his thumb out. He can feel the artery in Johnny's flat stomach beating against his hand, double-time, hear his own breathing coming hard through his nose.

"I know," Johnny agrees. "Normally that's very boring."

"I just like to practice," Evan says. It sounds sort of plaintive. His thumb is stroking along the skin under the briefs now, silky and blood-warm.

"I manscape," Johnny says. He sounds breathless and a little off-balance. His cheeks are turning pink. When Evan stares at him, he says "What? You looked curious. Are you telling me you don't?"

"I'm not telling you that-"

"You want me to find out for myself? Get your hand out of my pants."

Evan blinks at the sudden change of tone. He feels kind of slow, a different kind of slow than Johnny usually makes him feel. A honeyed sticky slow that makes it very easy to focus on Johnny's thin red mouth and his eyelashes and the ripple of his abdominal muscles, but hard to focus on anything else. "What?"

"We have a carpet interview in," Johnny twists his head. "One and a half hours? I have to finish getting ready. I'm going to need at least another hour for that, especially since you've kind of fucked with my tailoring and my timetable. I don't have time to mess around _and_ make myself look presentable, and it's the Oscars, I have to do them right. Don't give me that look, I'm immune."

"What look?" Evan says, unhooking his thumb and gathering his hand back to himself with what he hopes is stiff dignity. Stiff something, anyway - fuck. He didn't say that out loud, it's okay. Johnny makes an irritated little noise low in his throat. His fingers are deftly doing up all the little buttons on his shirt, hiding his chest again.

" _That_ look. Later, okay? Maybe."

"After the Oscars?"

"If you don't annoy me too much."

"If _you_ don't say anything to the reporters to embarrass me," Evan says, seeing an opening, and then his brain catches up with him. Is he bribing Johnny Weir with his body to not say mean things about him on the red carpet?

"Maybe I'll wear actual panties for you," Johnny says with one of his fluttery eyelash blinks, opening his wardrobe and pulling out a pair of grey dress pants whose existence Evan had begun to doubt, and whose appearance he doesn't find quite as reassuring as he'd hoped. His body tells him that it wouldn't mind that deal too much.

"Are you serious?"

Johnny ignores him, fiddling with his bowtie, but his mouth is curving again. "Well, you're completely deaf to nuance, so I guess you'll have to come over and see."


End file.
